Ghost
by xWintra
Summary: Cynthia Larsson learnt the price of war. After fighting for freedom for years, she had never prepared to lose those she loved, including Bucky Barnes, as she watched the world age around her. It wasn't all bad. At least she was still around when her best friend was thawed out. The bad part? The assassin she had sworn to kill turned out to be the man whose dog tags she still wore.


**Chapter One  
The Survivor**

* * *

 **Austria**  
 **September, 1943**

Cynthia Larsson's life was not what she had thought it would become. As a child she had had dreams of becoming a doctor, helping people through life-saving surgeries and procedures, techniques beyond the nurse occupation women were generalised into. But life was so rarely kind, and that was something Cynthia had learnt the hard way. First, it had been not having enough money, nor respect as a woman, to properly study medicine. And then came the worst part.

The day Nazis raided and burned her town to the ground, killing those who resisted or were less fortunate, and capturing those they could. Cynthia remembered the journey to the prison camp, the uncertainty and unshakeable sense of dread that just because they were alive didn't mean they were lucky. She had had her whole family alongside her, thankfully, both her parents and her older brother and little sister. They had barely been living in France for a year when they had been torn away from their home.

Cynthia remembered her time in Natzweiler, a concentration camp of Hitler's in France that Cynthia and her family had found themselves thrown into. She remembered the manual labour in the camp, being forced to mine and build for hours on end, till she couldn't remember a time when her body hadn't ached. She remembered the lack of food and water given to the prisoners, the malnutrition and sickness that was frightfully common amongst the prisoners. Prisoners whom Cynthia was pressed against, so strong in numbers that personal space was a thing of the past, as they all struggled through what had somehow become their life.

But Cynthia especially remembered the abuse from the camp. She still had tender red lines on her back from where she had been flogged. She couldn't even remember what for. She remembered the horror stories she heard from some other prisoners, of vicious assaults and violations, that Cynthia counted herself as lucky for never having experienced. She also remembered the alarming number of executions, of how one step out of line could mean being beaten to death, or shot in the head, or sometimes worse.

She looked over at her brother, Emanuel, who was crammed into the crowded cell along with her. His nose had an odd crookedness about it, a permanent reminder of the Nazi who beat him close to death at Natzweiler because he didn't like Emanuel being able to understand German, among other foreign languages. Cynthia could not remember a time where she had seen more blood on someone who was alive. She found the violence needless, and she knew the Nazi had just wanted a reason to beat someone up.

The last of the Larsson bunch, Ebba, was the most unharmed. She was malnourished, like every prisoner, but less so than others due to her two oldest siblings dividing their rations and giving them to Ebba. They knew she wouldn't eat if she was aware of the sacrifice they were making, so neglected to tell her. And while at the camp, Cynthia or Emanuel had always stood up and received the abuse instead of their younger sister, resulting in the shocking amount of scars and current injuries their bodies were marked with.

The camp had taken everything from the Larssons; a couple of birthdays, a home and their parents. The deaths were two months old, but it was still an open wound that neither Larsson could go a day without feeling. Their father had gotten into a fight with a guard who harassed Emanuel and was killed by a bullet to his brain in front of his own family in the blink of an eye.

Their mother had given herself up for Cynthia, becoming a part of the weekly transportation of two dozen or so prisoners to the Austrian weapons facility the Larssons were now at. It was owned by Hydra, the Nazi science division that had apparently cut some deal with Natzweiler for their prisoners. No one who was transported to Austria ever came back; the prisoners taken there were as good as dead. They were harshly thrown into a cell with the others transported from their week, and some remainders from previous weeks.

Life in Austria wasn't far from Natzweiler. They slaved away in the day, building weapons, before being given their rations and then thrown back into their cell for the night. They slept on the cold, hard floor in the cramped space, though the Larssons usually huddled together for warmth and comfort. The difference between Natzweiler and Austria was that they weren't just there for slavery or some sort of violet pleasure. Anyone transported was there because they were expendable, and useful for human experimentation. A man by the name of Larien Bosconovitch came every few days, forcefully removing one of the prisoners, and taking them away. No one knew where to, or what happened, just that no one ever came back. Often, screams could be heard coming from the general direction that Bosconovitch took them away.

From one hell to the next.

The Natzweiler prisoners weren't the only ones there, however. Other prisoners of war – soldiers – who had been taken on the field, were locked up around them. They were only used for weapons building however, their strength and prowess making them far more valuable workers than the malnourished camp prisoners.

Cynthia and her family had been there for almost all of September and had seen a dozen or so prisoners dragged, screaming, from the cell, never to be seen again. None of the trio voiced it, but they were all thinking of their mother, who had met her demise in the very same building. Cynthia looked over at her sister beside her, the girl's eyes and hair reminding Cynthia of their parents. Ebba had her mother's doe brown eyes and the rich, chocolate-coloured hair of their father. Emanuel looked more like Cynthia, with a similar facial structure and the same golden hair their mother had. While Emanuel was the spitting image of his mother with both her hair and eyes, Cynthia was the only Larsson to have gotten her father's light-emerald irises.

"He's coming," Kalene said, alarmed. She was a young girl, younger than Ebba by a few years, with frizzy brown hair and pale blue eyes. She was one of the few prisoners Cynthia had become friendly with in the last few weeks, but they refrained from making too close a friendship, as making friends in the particular environment was going to end in tragedy. Cynthia already knew she was going die in Austria. It wasn't so much a matter of _if_ but _when_ , she had been forced to accept that.

Bosconovitch was shouldered by two armed bodyguards as he walked down the aisle of cells. Many of the imprisoned soldiers shook their cell bars or yelled out in different languages, but he remained indifferent as he made his way to where the Natzweiler prisoners were being kept. The twenty-something prisoners inside the cell shuffled back, pressing as far away from the door as possible. The cells were cylindrical, and barred all around, with a grate up top that let light in.

Kalene retreated into a corner with an older woman named Elsanne, as well as a girl under ten whose name no one even knew. Another woman, Nina, was pressed against Emanuel. Bosconovitch stopped in front of the cell, and unlocked it painfully slowly, before swinging open the door. He looked out of place in the dim, tragic place, dressed crisply in a suit, with short-cropped copper hair and piercing blue eyes. He didn't look particularly old, maybe five or so more years than Emanuel, but had already done a horrific number of unspeakable things.

None of the prisoners inside the cell dared to move, instead trying to watch the madman while not making direct eye contact. Bosconovitch's eyes trailed over the people in front of him, before his piercing gaze landed on Cynthia and her family. Bosconovitch raised a hand and pointed directly at Cynthia, who had Ebba held against her. Emanuel stood behind.

"That one," Bosconovitch said, "with the brown hair." Cynthia's heart sank. They wanted Ebba.

The two guards moved forward immediately, one of them reaching for Ebba, who clung desperately to her sister's shirt. A guard had his arm around Ebba's waist and yanked on her, and she came away from Cynthia, before she reached out and managed to grab a hold of her sister's hand. Emanuel grabbed Ebba's other hand, trying to hold onto her one last time. All three Larssons were crying out; tears were running down Ebba's face, and Cynthia could feel her own building in her eyes.

Ebba's hand slipped from Emanuel's, and she fought to hold onto Cynthia, before her hand began to slide from her grasp. Their fingertips brushed just as Ebba was pulled away. "No! No!" Ebba screamed, kicking and struggling in the guard's grasp, but she was simply too small and too malnourished to put up enough of a fight.

The other prisoners did nothing but watch on in terror, or perhaps relief that it wasn't them. Emanuel was turned away from the scene and had begun to cry softly to himself, seeming to have accepted his sister's fate as her mother's. Cynthia, on the other hand, was frozen where she was, watching her sister thrash, before she made a choice that changed everything.

"Hey!" she called. The guards didn't have time to react before Cynthia had leapt forward, punching one of them across the face. Ebba was released as the other guard went to help contain Cynthia, who wheeled around and began pounding the guard's chest. Her blows were weak but acted as a distraction. Ebba had returned to Emanuel, who held her close, as they watched Cynthia. The first guard came from behind, striking Cynthia's temple and sending her sprawling to the ground.

"Thia!" Ebba screamed, and she was held back by her brother. Cynthia was on her hands and knees, the world spinning as she tried to focus on not blacking out. A guard grabbed her from behind, roughly restraining her arms and hauling her to her feet. She almost toppled over, her head still pounding. Bosconovitch said something in German, and Emanuel let out a sound of distress, being the only Larsson to know the foreign language.

Cynthia knew it wasn't good, as she was escorted out the cell. The door was slammed shut, as if sealing Cynthia's fate. Ebba and Emanuel immediately ran to the bars, pressing their faces between them. "Take care of each other, for me," Cynthia said, firmly. She wanted to say something else, a proper goodbye of sorts, but the guards were already taking her away, leading her down the aisle.

Cynthia had stopped struggling now; she'd been chosen for the experiments instead of her sister, like she'd intended. She had no idea what Bosconovitch would do to her, but she knew she wouldn't survive. The imprisoned soldiers continued to yell as Cynthia was taken away, their shouts ringing as the blonde was taken out of the prison ward and through the factory. She went through a number of corridors and up multiple staircases, to the point she felt lost.

Finally, they'd reached a wide, cold hallway. There were a number of doors along the walls, and Cynthia was taken into one. She almost screamed when she saw the metal table in the centre of the room, with a light above it and a collection of harmful looking tools all over the lab. The room smelt terrible, too.

The guards shoved Cynthia towards the table, who had started to fight harder against their holds. She only now noticed the leather bonds attached to the table to hold down her ankles and wrists. The guards forced her towards the table, eventually one took hold of her ankles and the other took her arms, and they carried her over to the table where Bosconovitch was waiting.

"No!" Cynthia finally started to scream as she was placed onto the table, which was extremely cold against her skin. Sheer desperation drove her as she tried to kick free, but the guards were far stronger than a woman who had been deprived of nutrition for more than a year.

"Hold her still!" Bosconovitch barked as he bound one of Cynthia's wrists to the table by her side. Cynthia pulled on it to test its strength, but it was too strong. She continued to put up a fight in the face of imminent death, until her last limb was secured on the table. She arched her back and let out pained grunts as she tried, helplessly, to get free. "You've got some real fight in you," Bosconovitch remarked, sounding sickeningly _impressed_. "Let's hope you react better than the others."

Cynthia heard a snap and turned her head to see Bosconovitch putting on a pair of gloves. She began to breathe rapidly as she knew her death was getting nearer and nearer. No one survived these experiments, not even Cynthia's mother who she knew would've been in this very same room just two months ago.

Bosconovitch approached the table, an object in hand. He held it up, before moving the light so it shone straight into Cynthia's eyes. She winced, squinting to see that Bosconovitch had a stamp in hand. Her watery eyes followed his movements, and Cynthia gasped as Bosconovitch pressed the stamp-looking-object against the inside of her left wrist. It burned like a thousand needles going into her skin but Cynthia didn't scream yet, instead let out a few strangled sounds of pain, hopelessly trying to move her arm away. After what felt like hours but was probably just minutes, Bosconovitch pulled away, the burning sensation lingering.

"To number you," Bosconovitch told her, as if demeaning her on her deathbed made him feel good about himself. He placed the stamp down, before picking something else out of sight to Cynthia, who had tears falling down her cheeks now, knowing this was going to hurt. She could only hope for a quick death. "Now, we can start the procedure."

There was a sharp pain in Cynthia's head, before she finally screamed.

* * *

There was the sound of a door slamming and it sounded painfully loud in Cynthia's head, rattling around in her skull. Her whole body was numb, and she couldn't feel herself move. She was lying down on hard ground, that much she knew. Slowly, the feeling started returning to her body, and so did the pain. It came all at once, a deep ache throughout her body.

"Ow," she groaned to herself, her throat feeling like sandpaper. She still hadn't tried to open her eyes, but they felt crusted and heavy. Cynthia moved a little, just her finger, and a wave of pain spread through her body from the tiny movement. Cynthia let out a choked gasp, breathing through the pain until it finally faded away.

Cynthia managed to crack her eyes open. She didn't know if she was in a room, but wherever she was, the lighting was dim. Her vision was blurry, as if she had opened them underwater. With a pounding head, she moved her neck to try and figure out her surroundings. It didn't hurt as much as when she moved her finger, and she bit her lip to distract herself from the ache. Cynthia was in a dimly lit stone cell, with chains around her wrist that held her to the wall. There was a barred door, much like the normal cells where everyone was kept.

Ebba and Emanuel were Cynthia's first clear thought, whether they were safe or not, if Cynthia's sacrifice had worked; all before Cynthia remembered what Bosconovitch had done to her and the memories came flooding back.

Cynthia pushed herself into a sitting position, her whole body screaming at her to stop. She leaned back against the wall, hanging her head as she breathed through the pain once more. She looked down at her limbs, flinching when she saw the amount of needle marks and incisions on _just_ her forearms. Her hands shook as she saw the inside of her left arm, the numbers 1756 printed there in neat, black letters. She slowly lifted a hand to head, the shackles chinking, feeling dry blood crusting in her light hair. She winced, pulling away from her head when she touched whatever wound was there.

There was the same slamming sound that had woken her up, and Cynthia turned to see Bosconovitch standing, stunned, at the entrance to the cell. "You," Cynthia seethed.

"You're alive," Bosconovitch said, dumbly.

"Yeah, why don't you come over here so you can be the opposite?" Cynthia hissed. The pain was pushed to the back of her mind and anger took over her senses as she stared at the man who had tortured and experimented on her. She remembered every moment of the procedure; every needle, every incision, every ounce of pain. She remembered every word he said, every time his face came into view while she was strapped to the table, every time she screamed and tried _not_ to bite her tongue off. Cynthia remembered everything about what had been done to her up until the point she'd passed out from the pain.

"You've got energy. That's a sign of good health," Bosconovitch observed as he approached Cynthia, who wasn't sure if she should shuffle away from him or try and attack him. She chose neither, instead remaining still as Bosconovitch crouched down in front of her, taking a small torch from his coat pocket. He clicked it on and shone it at Cynthia's eyes, who continued to glare at the mad scientist. "I need to run some more tests," Bosconovitch said, putting the torch away and shuffling to the entrance of the cell.

"Like hell you are," Cynthia called after him as he shut the door to the cell and headed off, probably to his lab. Cynthia sighed, staring at her hands. She was alive, somehow. She'd thought she was giving in to death for Ebba, but instead, she'd survived. She made it through every injection, every wound, everything Bosconovitch had unleashed upon her.

She'd survived.

* * *

The next few hours were a blur, with Bosconovitch going in and out of the cell as he ran tests on Cynthia. He took her blood and forced her into other physical and mental tests. So far, it didn't seem like the results the scientist had been hoping for, despite the fact that Cynthia was the first person to wake up alive _and_ well after the procedure.

Bosconovitch finally seemed done for the day and made to the leave. "You just going leave me here?" she called after him. Once again, she received no answer, as the cell door was closed. Cynthia scoffed, leaning back against her spot on the wall. She wanted to see her family, tell them that she was alive; she needed to.

Cynthia slept uncomfortably against the wall that night and woke up with aching joints and a crick in her neck. Relatively speaking, the total body pain was less than the day before, but she still felt like she'd been run over by a train and her stomach was turning to the point her morning routine had been dry retching.

She wasn't sure what time of day it was when the door to the cell squealed open, and Cynthia gave Bosconovitch a glare. He looked even more stunned than the day before. "No one has survived after the procedure for more than twenty-four hours," Bosconovitch said, more to himself than Cynthia. "You've survived almost thirty-six."

"You better hope I don't make it because once I get out of these chains I am going to _murder_ you," Cynthia spat. She didn't know if she meant the threat, or if she'd be physically capable of killing another human being. What she did know, however, was that she would hurt him, make him pay, for what he did to her and so many others.

Bosconovitch chuckled, and it was terrible look on him. "Your spirit never falters," he mused. Cynthia pulled on her chains, the metal clinking loudly in the small cell. Someone moved behind Bosconovitch, and for the first time Cynthia noticed a short, chubby man standing there.

Cynthia narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell're you?" The man stepped forward. "Is that what it looks like if you actually get run over by a train?" Cynthia said before she could stop herself when she saw the man's face. He truly looked like a bad science experiment, and the round glasses didn't help the look.

The man exchanged a look with Bosconovitch, who just shrugged. "You must be the subject I've heard so much about," the squat man said in a weaselly voice with an accent Cynthia couldn't quite pinpoint.

Cynthia scowled, irked by the label she'd been given. "Good to know the _subject_ is talked about."

"You don't get it, do you?" the squat man asked in disbelief. Cynthia tilted her head, confused. "You should not be alive. After what you have been through, you should be dead." _You should be dead._ Those words stuck in Cynthia's mind as the squat man turned back to Bosconovitch. "Keep me updated on her condition." Bosconovitch just nodded as the squat man shuffled off. Bosconovitch looked back at Cynthia, before walking and shutting the cell door.

"Your wounds have healed," he informed her briskly.

"No thanks to you," Cynthia sneered as Bosconovitch turned and left. The blonde glanced back down at her forearms, furrowing her eyebrows when she realised all the needle and incision marks from the day before were completely gone.

And it appeared Bosconovitch wanted to test this theory, as he reappeared at the 'forty-eight-hour mark', approaching Cynthia in a hurry as she tried to blink away her sleep in time. Cynthia frowned when she saw the knife in the scientist's hand. She tried to shuffle back as Bosconovitch crouched in front of her, putting the knife forward. Cynthia let out a frightened yelp and kicked out, her legs being unbound.

Bosconovitch grunted, and Cynthia tugged on her chains to try and get away. The scientist let out a sadistic laugh as he always did whenever she showed spirit, and lashed out. Bosconovitch brought the knife down, leaving a wound trailing down the Cynthia's arm. She winced, tears springing to her eyes. She could feel the blood dripping from the wound down her arm as Bosconovitch watched it intently.

"You couldn't have just taken a blood test?" Cynthia snapped as Bosconovitch also took a swab of Cynthia's blood.

"A blood test would not tell me this," Bosconovitch murmured, staring at Cynthia's wound. The woman looked down at her arm, just in time to see the skin begin to move back together. In just under a minute, all that was left of the wound was the blood that was shed. "Incredible," Bosconovitch whispered, before wiping away the blood, revealing completely smooth skin. Cynthia's eyes were wide as she stared at where the cut used to be.

As Cynthia's stomach flipped over itself and her skin paled, Bosconovitch cracked a triumphant grin and whispered, "It worked."

* * *

 **A/N** : hello and welcome to this story _!_ it is an old one of mine, honestly, that i am excited to finally be writing and putting out there. as evidenced by this chapter, this story _will_ contain some heavy material, but this is about as severe as it gets. the story also starts in the middle of _the first avenger_ , and i plan to write it up to civil war if everything goes well. reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated _!_


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